BACK in 1950, being the recruit on a section of very large and experienced coppers at the local Nick, I tended to get jobs befitting my position on the totem pole.

I was therefore nominated to collect a small pony that had been found straying at Bevere to bring it to the police animal pound in a field off Bromwich Road.

Not for me the luxury of a horsebox - just a piece of rope and the directions where I would find my four-legged friend.

After a bus trip, I toddled down to Bevere where I found Hercules happily getting stuck into tidbits given to him by adoring kids. I quickly abandoned the thought of having a ride through the town although the prospect of walking about three miles with my mate on the end of a bit of rope filled me with dread.

It had got to be done, so soon Hercules and yours truly started on our voyage of discovery towards the city. The locals thought it was hilarious - happily, cameras were in short supply, but how I would have loved a picture now!

A cunning plan started forming in my young brain. I would take Hercules through Pitchcroft, he can have his dinner, and I can have a rest from all the ribald remarks.

Even Hercules started stepping more lively on Pitchcroft when he saw laid out before him all the dinners for the rest of his life. Sadly, I had forgotten one important fact. It was race day, and as we got near the stands, it started. Everyone was laughing and shouting "what race you in, officer?" and "are they giving you a start?" It never stopped and my ears burnt.

Eventually, we got to our destination, and as I put my little new pal in the pound to wait his young owner, I gave him a last pat and hoped my next captive would have two legs.

JOE WALTER,

Worcester.